


We Made Up Our Identities

by crickets



Series: Names and Curses [7]
Category: Lost
Genre: Incest, Multi, jawyercita, mmf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crickets/pseuds/crickets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five rules they break</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Made Up Our Identities

**Author's Note:**

> [Original Post](http://crickets.livejournal.com/150158.html).

**1\. always make believe it isn't real**

Jack doesn't see his father in her. He tries, sometimes, but it just isn't there.

It's the first warm day of the year in the park, and Claire walks ahead of him, barefoot in the grass, and he knows she's like no one he has ever known. She picks a dandelion and tucks the yellow flower behind her ear. When she turns to him, she sees something in his eyes, a kind of proud reverence. Little sister. Big brother. The connection between them they never talk about.

"What was he like?" she asks, as though she could read his mind. But she can't, because his throat closes up and he turns away from her.

"Just this once, Jack," she says, "let's not pretend."

He doesn't look at her, kneels down and picks up a stone, heavier in his hand than it really should be. "He was flawed," he says. "He was hard and stubborn and… nothing like you."

She kneels beside him and slips her hand into his. She knows this will be the only time they speak of it.

"Let's go home," she says. "Sawyer's waiting for us."

 

**2\. we keep our secret**

 

Claire's been taking a painting class in the city. When she was in school, they told her she had talent, but she could never see it.

Now, she smoothes broad strokes onto empty canvas in a tiny corner of their apartment, her fingers stained with blues and reds and browns, smelling of paint.

Back on the road, they go south this time - a modest house and some land in the mountains of Kentucky. Claire asks for a room to paint in and Sawyer laughs, calls her Picasso, tells her of course, says he'd build her a studio of her own if he could.

On the weekends, she locks herself in for hours at a time, keeps her work hidden until it's final and perfect.

Jack brings her lunch and supplies from town, kisses her and stains his shirt.

"It'll come out," she promises and lifts it over his head.

Somewhere in Lexington, there's an art gallery, and on one wall hangs a rash of color, three torsos, wrapped together, twisted in a desperate embrace, two male, one female, their faces blurred from view.

She named it simply, _Us_.

 

**3\. no what ifs**

 

One night, after Claire's asleep, Jack and Sawyer walk down to the pond with two poles and a six pack. Sawyer talks about night fishing with his daddy, and no one would ever know he lost him until his voice cracks.

"Anyway," he says. "Those were some good times."

Jack nods, smiles at him in the dark, and shifts closer to him on the dock until their shoulders touch, their weight supported by each other.

An hour later, after running out of booze and bait, they find themselves stripped and in the water, splashing around like two kids, until they collide, drunken bodies pushing clumsily against each other, tongues pressing into each other's mouths, fighting for control, a dance they've done a million times. Sawyer's hand wraps expertly around Jack, and Jack gasps into his mouth. Sawyer grins and fists his cock, tugging until Jack comes in his hand, the salty evidence washed away by the cool fresh water.

Jack's missed this, just the two of them, adrenaline and blow jobs and swearing and fucking like they might die if they didn't, like the first time, on the island.

"Do you ever…" Jack says, lying on his back next to Sawyer on the dock, his words trailing off into to clear stars.

"Do I ever what?" Sawyer asks.

"Think about her," Jack says. "Kate, I mean. You and her? If she hadn't…" he tries not to think of the blood on her face, her twisted, mangled, body, but the image floods his mind anyway. "If things had turned out differently?" he finishes.

Sawyer's mind drifts to Claire, warm and asleep in their bed. He knows Jack's thinking of her too.

"Never," he says. "Not once, Doc. And don't you think of it, neither. I don't want nothing different."

"No," Jack says. "Me either."

 

**4\. we don't make plans**

 

Sawyer spends long hours each day at the stables a few miles down the road, keeping the place up, tending the horses, and working the tractors for the old man who lives there. He tells Sawyer stories of his time in the war, teaches him about farming, about the importance of family.

It's been years since the crash, years since they've been living this way, moving from place to place, and they're all getting a little older, but Sawyer thinks Claire looks more beautiful by the day, her hair long and pulled into a messy bun as she paints. He loves to watch her and Jack together, the way they move as one, doesn't think he's ever seen anything quite like it.

One night, with Jack working late at the hospital, Claire curled up in his arms, Sawyer tugs at the hem of her tank top, exposing the soft skin of her stomach. He kisses her belly button and looks up at her.

"Ever think about having another baby?" he asks.

Claire doesn't flinch like he expects her to, she just watches him, his lips grazing her stomach, gives a slight nod. "Sometimes," she admits. "Lately, yeah."

The corners of Sawyer's mouth turn up at the ends. "You and me, we'd make some fine looking babies," he says.

"I was thinking a girl," she says, runs her fingers through his hair, her other hand smoothing over a bruise on his shoulder, an injury from the farm.

"She'd be blonde of course," he says.

"Of course," she agrees. "What'll we call her?"

Sawyer closes his eyes and he can picture her, curly-haired, three years old, walking down the hall to the kitchen in the morning, dragging a blanket behind her. "Lola," he says.

Claire laughs. "Lola?"

"Lola is a fine name," Sawyer asserts.

"Lola," Claire says, pulling his face to hers, testing the weight of the word in her mouth. "It is a fine name," she agrees. "We should tell Jack," she says seriously.

Sawyer smiles and licks his lips. "Later," he says and kisses her, his tongue flicking gently against the roof of her mouth. "Right now? How's about we practice those baby-making skills?"

 

**5\. never stay in one place for too long**

 

Sawyer plants a late vegetable garden in the back, and together they watch blossoms turn to ripe fruit, reds and golds, peppers, cucumbers, even corn. They eat the first of the harvest outside in their haven of trees, cherry tomatoes popping in their mouths and white wine in their glasses. For some reason it reminds Claire of the island.

Later that night, she is once again between the two of them, a single sheet across their legs, their bodies sticky from the humidity and the exertion, and their arms draped across her middle.

"I want to stay here," she says, and Sawyer kisses the place where her jaw meets her neck. Jack stirs, his lips finding the spot opposite Sawyer, her skin salty to the taste.

"This feels like home," she says, and for the first time since that blue and white shoreline in the Pacific, she means this place, these walls, the trees, the ground, the air around them. They don't give her an answer, but their hands meet each other's between her legs, each seeking her tiny bud, and together they bring her over for the second time that night.

In the morning, Jack goes to town for supplies to fix the loose step on the front porch, Sawyer sets to work on the busted air conditioner, and Claire knows they're finally right where they ought to be.


End file.
